


Dead Girls Don't Bleed

by katyglyndwr



Category: Homestuck
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Blackrom, Dreambubbles, F/F, Mindfuck, Sadomasochism, Time Shenanigans, gorn? sort of??, it's not REALLY gore but if you're grossed out by gore you probably will not enjoy it, memory shenanigans, there is some physical violence, they both enjoy it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyglyndwr/pseuds/katyglyndwr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're dead for thousands of years, you get into certain habits. When you were in your first dreambubble, for example, you discovered that you no longer needed to breathe. You experimented with sucking air into your lungs, but it just sat there and stagnated. Sure, you missed it sometimes, but it was just a part of life. Death. Whatever. The point is, you are accustomed to certain constants of reality.<br/>So of course when you open your bedroom door to find Damara sprawled out on your bed, you jump a mile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Girls Don't Bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ribbontype](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbontype/gifts).



> The prompt was for some really rough and dirty Damara/Meenah blackrom, and this...uh, is certainly rough? Happy Ladystuck!

When you're dead for thousands of years, you get into certain habits. When you were in your first dreambubble, for example, you discovered that you no longer needed to breathe. You experimented with sucking air into your lungs, but it just sat there and stagnated. That was probably the weirdest part, for you. The lack of a heartbeat was easy to ignore if you were just sitting still, and it was kind of cool to be able to run for hours and not feel winded. Sure, you missed it sometimes, but it was just a part of life. Death. Whatever. The point is, you are accustomed to certain constants of reality.

So of course when you open your bedroom door to find Damara sprawled out on your bed, you jump a mile. She seems to find it pretty amusing. The thing is, nobody hangs out in your dreambubble memories of your palace, partly because most of your ghostly acquaintances suck and your sick moon exile palace and its copious statues of the greatest empress Alternia never saw (you) are totally wasted on them, but mostly because you like the silence. You've rehashed your life—and everyone else's lives-- so many times it's nice to have some feeling of privacy. You're not expecting a visitor, is what you're glubbin, and findin Megido intimidating has nofin to do with it, despite what she's smirking. Irritation blooms in your chest.

“Fancy seein you here in my private quarters, Megido.”

“<<歓迎家、マスター。>>” She greets you in her weird lowblood dialect, and gives you a little bow of the head that feels somehow sarcastic. “<<私はちょうど装飾と調度品であなたのユニークな味を称賛した。あなたは、豪華なイカがたくさんある。私はあなたが小さな女の子ながらストローク自身オフのようにそれらに埋もれて横たわっていたと想像するのが好きです。>>”

Something complimentary about your cuttlemates, you're pretty sure? She still looks way too delighted with herself to be talking to you, and you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thanks. Can I, er, politely ask what the shell you're actually doin here? I know we're not really, er, buddies, after that whole thing with you murderin me an all.” Shore, you kinda had it coming, and it's hard to hold a grudge when everybody's just as dead as you, but you're still a little sore over it. That shit hurt.

She gives you that stuck-up smirk again and straightens her skirt. You are seized with an incredible urge to fork her.

“<<ご関心をお寄せいただきありがとうございます。私は面白い本を読んでいた。私が覚えているだろう物事の多くを学びました。その後。私は一人でだとき。>>” Oh shit, you're pretty sure you heard the word book in there, and there's only one thing that could mean. She makes a display of being disinterested with the little composition notebook as she fishes (heh) it out from under the pile of plushes. Oh, fuck no.

“Oh, fuck no.” You reiterate aloud. “What is this, pupa playground time? You gonna read my diary? Dish about it over the lunch carcass with Rufioh?”

“No. <<私は、私がここに読んだ他の誰に伝える必要はありません。>>” She flips to the bookmarked page, the only one that you ever changed post-death. “<<しかし、私はあなたがあなたがそれらを殺すためにどのように申し訳ありませんがみんなに伝えるべきだと思います。私は何をこのページに書かれていることは良い計画だったと思う。私はあなたがそれに値すると思う。>>” She tears the page out, and with her eyes fixed on you, folds it into a neat square and tucks it into her bra.

“<<あなたは正しかった。私たちは、あなたが自分を殺す必要がある、あなたを取り除くことに値するん。>>” She leans back on your bed as if she belongs there, and that's somehow the worst insult of all. You step in close and do your best to tower.

“Thanks for your shitty glubbin opinion. Get outta my space, Megido.”

“<<私はいつもあなたのスペース、piexesになります>>” She sits up.

Her lips crash into yours.

It's objectively terrible for a second, awkward angle, teeth clicking on teeth, then all of a sudden it gets good. Her mouth softens against you. She puts an arm around your neck. You curve down toward her. The two of you are a gentle pile of limbs, surrounded by stuffed toys. It feels pile-like enough that you don't know witch way is up.

“<<わたしは、あなたが大嫌いです。>>” she says against your mouth. You feel no small amount of relief.

“Hate you too, toots.” Your hand moves from her shoulder to her neck and that's when shit starts to get weird. Her pupils dilate with pain.

“Damn.” You whisper. You flex your claws a tiny little bit, focusing on the sensation. On the one hand, it doesn't even prick her neck. On the other, memory rushes in. In another bubble, one you tend to leave any time you dream about it, you are panting and drymouthed on top of her under the weird alien sun of her SGRUB world and you are spilling her blood across the stone. You feel flesh tear and blood stick under your claws. You hear, like an echo, the sound she made. Makes? No, Damara's throat is smooth and grey and unmarked, and she is silent against your hand.

She reaches up and gently swipes across your closed eye with a thumb. Your flesh comes alive under the touch with agony. Your vision goes funny. You feel a trickle of blood run down your cheek. That was a serious shiner she gave you. Is giving you.

Fuck the tense. You haven't felt anything this good since—well, since you were alive. There is a memory-you whose heart is pounding blood, whose lungs are sucking in air, whose nerves are alive with the scrape of stone on your back. You are closer than you have been in millenia. You press yourself closer to Damara, shower tiny delicate kisses onto her cheeks and jaw and smell the iron of dark red blood leaking from the toothmarks. She strokes your stomach until your abdominal muscles tear and you can't get your shirt off quickly enough, you need more.

You kiss her, long and languid, and you press your thigh in between her legs. You force her broad shoulders to the ground, exertion making your muscles sing and beads of sweat stinging your good eye. You're not built for this, this slamming each other around, and you can both tell. If you were underwater she'd be screwed, but this isn't underwater.

She ruts up against you, a sweet smooth motion of her hips, and pins you against the hot dusty rock easily, wrenching the breath out of you with a cry. You pull away long enough to slide off her skirt and panties. Her ghostly pale eyes make her expression hard to read, but when you nuzzle her inner thigh she drops her head back and the dark red lashes flicker closed. Her bulge is unsheathed and twisting hungrily in the air. You press against it, feeling her nose splinter under the heel of your hand while it twines around your fingers. Slick blood drips into your mouth, the bitter salty tang of sex while you stroke her with your tongue and fingers. She's so wet inside, slick red fluids dripping down to your wrist, and you add a third finger. She bucks into your mouth, smacking your head against the rocks, and you see stars.

She digs her fingers under your ribcage and yes, that's glorious, you want her inside you more. You almost rip your pants in your haste to get them off. You straddle her and your viscera threaten to spill right out of you.

You plunge her bulge into you and moan out loud. It's too much too fast, and it's not anywhere near enough. She stretches you right to the edge of pleasure while her blows hammer down on you. You struggle for breath, feeling your pulse slow. Your breath. Your pulse. Basic bodily functions turned into ecstatic triumphs. How could you take them for granted until you were dying?

It doesn't even hurt much, when you actually kick it. There was pain leading up to it, sure, but as you lay under her, fading away, you just remember the sensation of your blood draining from you, struggling to feel the next second of it.

She sits up, breathing hard, to watch you die. Her nook ripples around you and she makes a high, satisfied sound of orgasm. It is the worst thing you've ever heard. You tuck her gore-soaked hair out of her face and your own genetic material splashes against her thighs and your last breath ekes out of your battered lungs, and after that there's nothing left to remember.

You come back to yourself in your own memory-room, surrounded by your familiar posters and the view of the moonscape out the window, head pillowed against Damara's breast. Her shirt is rutched up along her shoulders and she is drawing lazy curlicues with her fingers on your bare back.

“Shit.” You say aloud.

“<<私は私の心を変えた。>>” She puts her hand along your jaw and tilts your head up to face her. “<<あなたは自分の人生を終わらせるべきではありません。>>” Her hair is askew and her makeup smeared, but she doesn't look as messy as you would have expected. But then, you guess there's no reason she would look winded. Ghosts don't tire.

You prop yourself up on one shoulder and reach into the upturned grubmilk crate by the side of your bed, looking for the lighter that you're pretty sure you remember being in there. And since that's how you remember it, the first thing you put your hand on is a slim plastic rectangle.

“Glad you've sorted that out. Gimmie that page a second.” She hands the little square of paper over wordlessly, watching. You touch it to the flame and watch it curl into black char, then grey ash, then nothingness as the flame winks out in your palm. She sits up.

“<<私は本当にあなたを憎む。誰もあなたが、私を殺すことはできません。さえあなた。>>”

“Yeah,” you say, poking the ash in your hand with the opposite finger, “that's fair.”

 


End file.
